Read Online Shrike (Book 2): Rampant by Emmie Mears - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emmie Mears
Tags: Scotland, Superhero, Superheroes, Noir, gritty, female protagonist, Edinburgh, scottish independence
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advertise if it were Britannia's hide out or Rosamund Granger setting a trap.
As no one's shot me with tranquillisers yet, I don't think anyone's looking out for me. I settle in with my back against the ventilation unit and watch the roof. The arrow did point up — perhaps the roof was the end point in mind.
Dawn won't arrive for hours, and the sky won't even begin to lighten for three or four. If there's something meant for me on the building I'm watching, it's not something I can see in the dark even with my enhanced vision.
But movement I can see. There's a wee shed on the roof, and the door cracks open and then swings wide. A young — I think — woman steps out, hair tucked under a hat. She steps out, looking around. Her head swivels so quickly that I'm a bit worried for her on behalf of her neck. She paces in front of the door and pulls something out of her jacket.
At first I can't tell what it is. It looks like a dark-coloured handkerchief, but when she shakes it out, I see something glowing. She holds it by the corners.
The glowing thing is a shrike.
She's signalling me.
It's clear she doesn't see me yet, and I slide down to a crouch and waddle toward the edge of my building, looking down over where she stands. After a minute, she crumples the glowing flag and stuffs it back into her jacket.
She checks the time on her mobile and retreats into the shed.
I check the time on my own mobile. It's 3:06 in the morning. I don't know if the woman will return or not, but I settle in to wait.
I don't have to wait long. She returns at 3:15, holds out the flag for one minute, rotating slowly to hold it in all directions, then retreats.
She does the same thing at 3:25, 3:35, and 3:45.
Every ten minutes. It seems a bit excessive, and I start to wonder if part of her jitters stem from too much caffeine to keep awake. What is she doing for the say, eight and a half minutes it she has between trips in and out?
At 3:55, she comes out again and holds up the sign.
Silently, I drop down on the roof behind her when she turns north toward the firth. I dart glances around me, making sure no one is waiting to ambush me.
When she turns back and spots me, she lets out a yelp and skitters backward, windmilling her arms. She doesn't fall, and I don't make a move to steady her.
"You rang?" I say.
"You came." Her voice is steadier than I expect it to be, and indeed after the initial shock of seeing me, she seems to pull herself into some semblance of order.
"I reckon if you went to so much trouble, I may as well come see what the fuss is about."
"Did you come alone?"
"Did you?"
The woman jumps as if I've pulled a gun. "I'm alone."
"Good."
"I've got to show you something."
"Aye? Trot it out." I know I'm being curt with her, but she doesn't seem to care.
"It's in my flat."
Super strength or no, I don't particularly fancy following her into her flat. I know enough of dicey semantics to know that just because she said she's alone up here doesn't mean her flat is devoid of other humans.
"Cheers, but I'd rather not go down there."
She just nods, as if my answer is expected, and my esteem of her increases. "I'll go get it."
The woman vanishes for a few minutes, and I keep myself on alert. Stranger danger has become all too real a thing, and I'm not convinced yet that this isn't some sort of trap where I'm the bait for Rosamund Granger.
When the woman reemerges with a printed list in her hand a moment later, I frown. She hands it over to me.
"What is this?" I ask. The list is names on a spreadsheet. Surname, given name, profession, political affiliation, location. I read it in the glow of my mobile, skimming through names.
Randy Giles.
Sarah MacKay.
Taog MacMillan.
All the moisture leaves my mouth and I take an involuntary step backward.
Taog's name is on this list.
I don't need this woman to answer. I know what it is.
"These are targets. Granger's targets. Where did you get this?"
"I made
As no one's shot me with tranquillisers yet, I don't think anyone's looking out for me. I settle in with my back against the ventilation unit and watch the roof. The arrow did point up — perhaps the roof was the end point in mind.
Dawn won't arrive for hours, and the sky won't even begin to lighten for three or four. If there's something meant for me on the building I'm watching, it's not something I can see in the dark even with my enhanced vision.
But movement I can see. There's a wee shed on the roof, and the door cracks open and then swings wide. A young — I think — woman steps out, hair tucked under a hat. She steps out, looking around. Her head swivels so quickly that I'm a bit worried for her on behalf of her neck. She paces in front of the door and pulls something out of her jacket.
At first I can't tell what it is. It looks like a dark-coloured handkerchief, but when she shakes it out, I see something glowing. She holds it by the corners.
The glowing thing is a shrike.
She's signalling me.
It's clear she doesn't see me yet, and I slide down to a crouch and waddle toward the edge of my building, looking down over where she stands. After a minute, she crumples the glowing flag and stuffs it back into her jacket.
She checks the time on her mobile and retreats into the shed.
I check the time on my own mobile. It's 3:06 in the morning. I don't know if the woman will return or not, but I settle in to wait.
I don't have to wait long. She returns at 3:15, holds out the flag for one minute, rotating slowly to hold it in all directions, then retreats.
She does the same thing at 3:25, 3:35, and 3:45.
Every ten minutes. It seems a bit excessive, and I start to wonder if part of her jitters stem from too much caffeine to keep awake. What is she doing for the say, eight and a half minutes it she has between trips in and out?
At 3:55, she comes out again and holds up the sign.
Silently, I drop down on the roof behind her when she turns north toward the firth. I dart glances around me, making sure no one is waiting to ambush me.
When she turns back and spots me, she lets out a yelp and skitters backward, windmilling her arms. She doesn't fall, and I don't make a move to steady her.
"You rang?" I say.
"You came." Her voice is steadier than I expect it to be, and indeed after the initial shock of seeing me, she seems to pull herself into some semblance of order.
"I reckon if you went to so much trouble, I may as well come see what the fuss is about."
"Did you come alone?"
"Did you?"
The woman jumps as if I've pulled a gun. "I'm alone."
"Good."
"I've got to show you something."
"Aye? Trot it out." I know I'm being curt with her, but she doesn't seem to care.
"It's in my flat."
Super strength or no, I don't particularly fancy following her into her flat. I know enough of dicey semantics to know that just because she said she's alone up here doesn't mean her flat is devoid of other humans.
"Cheers, but I'd rather not go down there."
She just nods, as if my answer is expected, and my esteem of her increases. "I'll go get it."
The woman vanishes for a few minutes, and I keep myself on alert. Stranger danger has become all too real a thing, and I'm not convinced yet that this isn't some sort of trap where I'm the bait for Rosamund Granger.
When the woman reemerges with a printed list in her hand a moment later, I frown. She hands it over to me.
"What is this?" I ask. The list is names on a spreadsheet. Surname, given name, profession, political affiliation, location. I read it in the glow of my mobile, skimming through names.
Randy Giles.
Sarah MacKay.
Taog MacMillan.
All the moisture leaves my mouth and I take an involuntary step backward.
Taog's name is on this list.
I don't need this woman to answer. I know what it is.
"These are targets. Granger's targets. Where did you get this?"
"I made
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